‘Hey man, leave us alairn,’ he shouts like some youngun I’ve just nicked his bag of kets from and begins to pull the bag from me.
I’m not having’ Billy lift this, so I’m pulling’ it off of him and he’s doing’ the same. Anyway the bag splits and all the shite goes over the road.
‘For fuck’s sake! You stubborn old bastard,’ I say to him.
‘Dave!’ Mike the driver shouts, ‘If he wants to kill himself, let the old fart do it!’
We start clearing the shite away. It’s not that bad – not food or anything. Thank fuck for that. There’s all these magazines, not your normal size mind. I open one up and drop it. What the fuck was that? That can’t have been real.
I pick it up again, this time cautiously. Like I’d be arrested for looking at it.
‘Oh my.’ Billy’s slobbering over my shoulder and Mike’s on his way to see what the commotion is.
I can only describe the magazine as a porno, but with a difference. It’s a one of those pervert ones. Mike’s got this expression on his face like he’s just come across a car crash. He’s sifting through a magazine called ‘Shittin’ ‘n’ pissin’. He doubles up and brings up the bacon butty he had at the refectory this morning.
‘Which scruffy fucker does this shite belong to?’ He manages to get out between pulling undigested rind from his throat. He’s going red at this point.
‘Some twat with three cars and a big house by the look of it.’ I start packing away the he-she magazine when I’ve got this corker of an idea. Save it for later, eh?
A normal run takes us a good five hours. It was a short one compared to my usual jobs. People don’t realise it, but it pays good wages working on the bins, cos of all the Health and Safety bollocks. We have to attend lectures every month at the college to keep us updated on the new rules and all that. I look like a right fucking student with my clipboard and glasses on. It hurts me eyes and the glasses are a fucking god send I can tell you. They didn’t mention the porno mags in the lectures though. It didn’t do Billy any harm the fuckin’ awld pervert. He’s smiling and gawgling at the mag over me shoulder. I shrug him off – the randy old bastard.
Simmons was the supervisor who worked in head office. I’d been up to that prick’s place several times for being late. Well, it wasn’t my fault the police had released me later than normal. My last incident was Tommy Bryce and Kirky Wellman: bunch of fucking arseholes. They’d been staring at me missus all night and when one of them approached her, I just flipped. I think it was Tommy I threw through the window and Kirky’s head I put in the fruit machine.
Simmons was about my age and came from the White Avon estate. Those twats were stuck up fuckers. The only real contact I had with Simmons was at College when we were in the same Art class. I’d took Art cos I fancied the bird that took the lesson. She was this forty something, red haired, crazy chick. I used to get her to explain what abstract or what that cubism was. I’d get an eyeful of her tits and they were huge. Not as big as the tits in some of those magazines I’d found this morning. I wasn’t interested in the other birds in the class, they were just daft and bothered aboot Madonna and Wham. Simmons would keep to himself and this would make him an easy target. I’d draw these cocks on his works of art and he’d know it was me straight away. Fuck knows how! I think that’s why he’s determined to find an excuse to sack me, the fat, little prick.
I only just found this out yesterday. Stockton-on-tees is the obesity capital of England. Fuckin’ ‘ell. All them boozers and chippies, I’m not surprised. I like to keep mesel’ in shape. I suppose the job helps oot. You’re lifting all the rubbish and it’s getting hoisted on those shoulders mind. It must do some damage to your back. Billy, the old pervert, he must be fucked. He’s been doin’ it for fifty years now – illegally now of course. A morning without that whiff of dirty nappies and piss and he’d be stiff as a doornail by the afternoon.
‘Coffee, white, one Mikey Mikey,’ I sing to him as we waltz into the refectory.
‘One coffee, one sugar and would that be with special cream, sir?’ He motions undoing his trousers.
Simmons walks in with his clipboard. Psychologically he’s hiding behind it, like a nervous lecturer. ‘Heathcliffe’s called in sick and seen as you two are back you can cover that.’
‘Fer fuck’s sake,’ I go, ‘Heathcliffe does this every Monday morning. That fucker’s hungover,’ I say to Simmons who raises his eyebrows.
‘Time and a half,’ Mikey says, ‘Think of the money.’
‘Give us fifteen minutes and we’ll be ready,’ I concede. I could do with the extra cash.
Simmons goes to update the chart in the reception and this is where I get my chance. The office is open. I hush Mike and motion him to wait. The computer isn’t even locked. There’s this memo which I change and address it to the Equality and Diversity Officer the next floor up. She’ll appreciate this – I’m sure.
‘Mike! Mike!’ I yell.
In he comes and we’re giggling at the memo. I put the Tranny Mag into a brown envelope and label it for the Equality and Diversity Officer.
‘Make sure he isn’t coming. We’ll get the sack, man!’
He doesn’t come in. It’s been a good ten minutes and we’re gone by time the fat, sweating fart gets back. His special envelope is already in the internal mailing system winging it’s way to Ms Stacey Potts the ‘black, three foot tall, wheelchair bound, lesbian who’s only got one arm’. This should go down like a pork sandwich at a Jewish wedding or a party popper at a funeral.
Let the course of events run on their own now. They were racing towards each other and the consequences would depend on Ms Potts’ response. We head out and do Heathcliffe’s round. His number two comes with us – that’s his partner who picks the shite up. We get loads of grief off the locals for the lateness of the service. What the fuck are we supposed to do? At least they’ve got somebody to come round. Go to places like Iraq and there’s shite everywhere, man. Disease and germs and what not hangin’ around your kids when they play footy in the street. Fuck that.
‘Better late than never, that’s what I say, mate!’ I say to this old fart who’s puffing on a pipe at the end of his yard.
‘You cannae get the service nowadays, bonnie laaad!’ He’s cackling away like a fucking witch.
What’s his problem? ‘Y’cannae predict when some twat’s goes sick on yer and you’ve got to cover for them.’
‘Yer complaining? Because if yer divvent like it, hand yer notice in. That’s what I used to tell my lot.’ He taps the end of his pipe and pokes a wire into it. It’s empty, and he’s still puffing on it like it’s lit.
‘You used to be on the council as well?’ I ask.
‘Aye,’ he answers, ‘That was before all this privatisation shite. I was eventually the head o’ th’ Union of Binmen, ‘afore they called ‘em refuse collectors.’ An owld woman brings a mug to him.
She folds her arms and gives me a look up and down. ‘Is that what they wear nowadays, Bill?’
‘Aye. Looks like one of those boiler suits off the telly before they cut the fellah’s head off with a rusty bread knife,’ he goes. Cheeky fucker.
‘The problem with youse lot is that you’ve got no stamina. Back in the seventies we had to crack on with oor lot. It was hard, but we played hard as well.’ He points the pipe to Mike behind me.
‘Davey. C’mon!’ Mike shouts.
‘Catch yer later, old man.’
‘Aye. Mind how yer gan, bonnie lad.’
I load myself onto the truck and we’re off trading insults and dodging rocks from the kids. Little fuckers. Some of them would be ideal in the Gaza strip bricking the Israeli soldiers over there, or somewhere in Belfast. I probably need body armour for this job.
The round isn’t that big and for that faggot Heathcliffe to call in sick again. The old fellah with the pipe’s right. No stamina in the workers of today. It’s time to set the standard, but I hear the flu’s going round this time, and it’s killing people off. There’s been six so far in Sunderland of flu related deaths. The leisure centres are being made into makeshift hospitals now. Scaring the fuck out of me. Martha’s mum was sick last night and I’ve told her not to visit. Get the hospital round and they can take her to the centres and that to sort her oot. They’ll come around in their space suits and hoist the awld fattie into the ambie. They’d need a fucking truck to take her. Fat hoower.
We get back to the office to clock back in and hand all our gear in. The refectory is unusually full, but something’s going on.
‘What’s up?’
Sheila’s in tears. Somebody’s died? Is it the flu? ‘Hey. Sit yerself down.’ I take her and put her in a chair. Her mascara is a jet trail down her cheeks.
‘I couldn’t stop him. Couldn’t….’ She blabbers on.
A policeman is taking a statement from an office worker who I don’t know. ‘Sheila. What happened.’
‘Simmons. He…He….’
My chest’s pounding here. Like I’ve just seriously wronged someone.
‘Stacey, the Equal Opportunities Officer had just come out of his office when he locked his door.’
Oh fuck! What’s he done? I get up and head to the office. There’s yellow tape sealing the entrance. They haven’t done a very good job of covering up the details. I can see legs poking from under the table: it’s Simmons. There’s blood on the wall and bloodied scalpel on the floor.
I stand, but unable to move. I haven’t seen dead people before, well only my dad – but that doesn’t count. This was, I presume, a suicide. Mike is bringing up the rest of his breakfast. It splashes on my boots. I can feel the sick as it splats off them. He must have cut his own wrists.
The Equal Opportunities Officer is in a right state. She’s all snot and tears like it’s her fault. There’s aboot five girls hangin’ around her, holding her and consoling her.
This is my doing. What can I do? Confess to it? I cannae do that, man. Hawaay. I’ll get the sack and there’s nee jobs oot there what with the financial crisis and that.
Mike gives me a look. Like he’s blaming me. ‘What?’
We head on out and cross the road. Mike’s not said one word to me yet. We go to the bar and order a beer. We need a beer. I sip from the pint. Mike takes the pint from me and I notices the shake.
‘Fuckin’ hell Mike. What the fuck have we done?’
‘We?’ He looks shocked.
‘Er… Yeah. We.’
‘Nah. You mate. You. I’ve got nowt to do with this. We’re just having a pint like we normally do mate. Nowt to do with Simmons like.’ He sits back and keeps on sipping until the pint glass is drained then he gets up, puts his coat on and walks out.
For the first time I feel very lonely. There’s a bad feeling and it’s in… no not in, it’s everywhere. It’s like I’m ill.
Bad karma. Just bad fucking karma.
(c) Craig Douglas 2009